


a favor between omegas, if you know what i mean

by relationshipcrimes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, M/M, Omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 08:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15926480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes
Summary: Post-Chorus, Locus goes off heat suppressants, and then totally and completely fails to prepare for his actual heat.





	a favor between omegas, if you know what i mean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> some notes on the a/b/o world: presentation refers to if youre an alpha/beta/omega; heat suppressants suppress heats while birth control is a separate thing; everyone has both a vagina and a dick in this universe because self-lubing asshole doesnt make any fuckin sense to me from a biological perspective; heats happen every six months; alphas/omegas come multiple times once theyve knotted and stay knotted for 5-10 minutes or so. this fic uses the word cunt, so if dont like, dont read, lol.
> 
> oh also dubious consent because they gave consent under the influence of heat.

After Chorus, Locus stops taking heat suppressants.

There’s something poetic about accepting that he’s human, or maybe something peaceful in the soul-searching that led to revising his long-standing policy on heats, or maybe something tragic about finally going off suppressants only now that his semi-monogamous alpha partner having gotten blasted off an alien tower. (Felix had _always_ wanted him to go off those suppressants, and Locus had always refused while Felix had been alive. Maybe there was something sour, then, about those small pushes Felix had insisted on and those small resistances Locus had clung to.)

But the truth is that when he chucks the suppressants out the airlock (and keeps the birth control, of course, because he’s not stupid), he goes into the concept of stopping heat-suppressants with a sort of confrontational daring, like a matador waving a red flag at the bull of the universe and his own biology. _Come fucking get me_ , in not so many words, but in sentiment, during the long days and nights aboard A’rynasea. _You wanted me to go into heat so bad? Then do your worst._

He’s got absolutely zero clue what he’d do if his heat hit in the middle of space. He’s got no alpha and no toys. The heat will be unpleasant and frustrating to the point of debilitation if he has nothing and he knows that. It’s the most unprepared that Locus has ever been for anything. Locus is _never_ without preparation, and the days go on, and he lands in and out of ports, and he never buys so much as a bottle of lube.

And the days turn into months, and Locus fixes his armor and throws out pieces and gets new ones, upgrades equipment, takes odd jobs, reconnects with old contacts, files a report to a UNSC census that one of its veterans, Isaac Gates, was deceased and his assets given to his next of kin, except Gates’s next of kin had never been specified and therefore all his money coincidentally made its way to Chorus’s donation funds. There’s little things to be done, and some big ones, too, often involving various contact with the Reds and Blues, once contact with Dexter Grif is established. Redemption is a long project, one that his every actions has begun to center around, and he enjoys that, even if A’rynasea is both too small and claustrophobic and too _big_ and lonely by turns.

Locus is in the middle of dutifully flipping through a photoset of terrible selfies Grif’s texted him, more out of boredom and masochistic irritation than anything, when a reminder he’d set up himself pings on A’rynasea’s screen: _two Earth years off_ , is all it reads.

He doesn’t forget the Earth year anniversaries of big things, like Felix’s death, or the start of the Chorus job, or the end of the Chorus job. The day he’d decided to stop taking heat suppressants was a lot smaller of a decision, and occurred a month after the Chorus job ended, when he was due for another pill. He’d honestly forgotten about it. He opens the reminder, resets it to remind him again in another year, and leans back in the pilot’s seat.

And deep down, he knows why he didn’t buy any toys or supplies for going through a heat alone. He’s been on suppressants since he was eighteen, when he joined the UNSC. In the nearly twenty years since, he’s been off them for only a handful of months once, when he left and before he started bounty work, and in those months his heats had been irregular and with unpredictable strength. And ever since then, it’d been radio silence from his heat with a force that would probably make a doctor shudder. By the time he’d went to Chorus, he was on double dosages of suppressants. Machines, after all, don’t have heats. Machines don’t want. And he, as a machine, would not be sorry if he lost the ability to _have_ a heat at all, permanently.

Twenty years on suppressants is about fifteen years longer than doctors recommend. Ten of those years was on suppressants of twice the dosage he should have been taking. And two years off suppressants is a long time to go without a heat—specifically, eighteen months longer than normal.

Well, that’s that. He’s fucked over his own biology with his own terrible decisions. Unsurprising. One more thing to add to the list of things he’s ruined. He’d thought he’d reached the end of the list, but it turns out there’s always more and more consequences coming out of the woodwork every day.

How… what’s the phrase? How _unfortunate_.  

And then Locus goes back to his datapad, flips through another selection of blurry photos of Grif’s double-chin and Simmons’s sunburn, and texts back that Grif needs to shave.

 

* * *

 

 

Locus forgets about the heat-suppressant reminder. The counter is at two years and three months by the time he winds up lurking in the Reds’ and Blues’ basement.

Officially the Reds and Blues’s guest bedroom has been more or less permanently held in reserve for Locus, so lurking in their basement is not what he’s really doing, but it’s what he feels like he’s doing. The alternative is to say that Grif begged Wash and Carolina for a dog and said that he’d feed and water the dog himself please please pretty please, he’ll walk him and everything, and Carolina rolled her eyes and sighed and said, _Fine, he can have the guest bedroom_ , and now the guest bedroom contains precisely one (1) toothbrush and two (2) of Locus’s spare shirts.

The counter is at two years and four months when Locus winds up with a dull pain in his pelvis. He attributes this to a stomach ache, or some other digestive issue. It goes away in less than an hour.

The counter hits two years and six months by the time Locus realizes that it’s not the guest bedroom. It’s _Simmons’s_ bedroom, or his old bedroom, which Simmons vacated in favor of moving in with Grif.

It’s a nice gesture that, over a couple of beers in the privacy of Locus’s room, Grif hesitantly admits to enjoying, even though Simmons seems to have forgotten. Typically, the omega moves in with the alpha and the alpha keeps their home or apartment, rather than the other way around. But Simmons had said that he was neater anyway and all his stuff would be easier to pack and move and Grif would be a disaster trying to move his things anyway, so it’d been Simmons who’d picked up his entire wardrobe and all his belongings and put them in cardboard boxes to integrate himself into _Grif’s_ room, like this was a normal thing that alphas did.

“I wouldn’t bring it up again, though,” says Grif. “That’d be weird, to still remember that from like, five months ago. I don’t think he even thinks about it. I’m pretty sure he just straight-up forgot omegas were supposed to move in with their alphas. But it was, y’know, nice. The kind of thing only an omega would think is important.”

Locus sips his beer and considers that this is about the time that he’s supposed to let slip that he does, in fact, understand, because he too is an omega, instead of the alpha that everyone assumes he is. But the moment he thinks about it too long, he hesitates, because ever since Chorus, there’s a consistent feeling that he’s betrayed every other omega and every other person of his presentation by being _exactly_ that weak-willed, needy omega clinging to an alpha to make their decisions for them. Although they didn’t look it from the outside, whatwith Felix’s stringbean shape and Locus’s hulking frame, Felix and Locus were some truly disappointing cliches: the domineering, arrogant alpha, the spineless omega; the alpha as a whole human being, the omega as a pathetic shadow with no function outside of their alpha.

It’s a double-bind that works terribly no matter how it’s sliced: Locus’s height and frame falls right into alpha stereotypes, and the second he admits to being an omega, every mistake he’s ever made falls right into _omega_ stereotypes. There’s no way to explain that what happened on Chorus was no result of some limp-wristed omega craving for subordination from Locus, or some sort of domineering sour alpha-omega partnership between him and Felix: it’d been, plain and simple, Locus’s own bad decisions and cowardice as a mercenary, soldier, murderer, and human being.

“Simmons sounds like a very…” Locus searches for the right word, and winds up with: “...straightforward alpha.”

Grif props his feet up on Locus’s legs. Locus pushes his feet off. “He used to be a power-hungry little shit. Really into that traditional alpha-omega nonsense,” Grif grumbles and puts his feet back up on Locus’s legs. Locus pushes his feet off again. “Well, it’s whatever. That was like, entire years ago, back at Blood Gulch. Real glad he isn’t anymore, is all I can say. The whole power thing was a fucking turn-off. The only guys I want tying me to the mattress are the guys who aren’t doing it to stroke their own ego.”

Locus clears his throat and tries to look like a regular alpha who definitely doesn’t relate to what Grif is saying whatsoever. It doesn’t matter that Grif doesn’t know that he’s an omega, anyway. What does it really matter? He doesn’t have any heats anymore. He might as well be a beta. Maybe that’s what he’ll tell the Reds and Blues if they ask, he thinks. And if anyone asks, so was Felix.

Even now, he thinks, he’s holding on to those little resistances against those little pushes from Felix. He wonders when he’ll be able to stop.

But for now, Grif puts his feet on Locus’s legs again. Locus pushes them off again. “C’mon, man, you’re no fun,” Grif complains. When Grif tries again, Locus lets his feet stay there, and rests his beer on Grif’s shin.

 

* * *

 

Locus hasn’t checked the counter since it reminded him on the two year anniversary, but it’s at two years and nine months when, in the middle of spotting Caboose’s bench-presses in the gym, Caboose suddenly stops in the middle of his rep and looks at Locus oddly and says, “You’re sweaty. And you smell funny.”

Of course he’s sweaty and smells funny. Locus just finished a workout routine from Carolina, and _punishing_ would be an understatement. “I’ll shower.”

“No, you smell funny like Sarge does sometimes,” says Caboose. “Or Grif.”

Which is when Locus smells it too—not what Caboose is smelling, but the telltale, heady spice of an alpha responding to an omega in the first stages of heat. There’s nobody else in the gym with them. Locus takes an involuntary step back. Caboose smiles apologetically upside-down, still holding the barbell resting on the rack.

“I’m… going to go,” says Locus.

“Okay!” says Caboose. “Have fun!”

Consequences keep coming for him, except now it’s not the consequences of taking suppressants for almost twenty years; it’s the consequences of lack of preparation. It’s distasteful and unpleasant, but he’s more than capable of going it alone, provided food, water, and a room with a sturdy lock on the door, all of which A’rynasea has. He books it to the guest bedroom, where he plans on getting (at most) a jacket, some extra protein bars, and a datapad so he can text Grif where he went (A’rynasea) and when he’ll be back (a few days maximum); but when he pulls on the door, it’s locked from the inside.

“Go away!” Grif’s voice yells.

Whatever Red and Blues malarkey it is this time, Locus does _not_ have the time for it. “Grif, let me in,” he snaps.

“Locus?!” says Grif’s voice, as if somehow surprised that Locus wants to enter Locus’s door to go into Locus’s bedroom where all of Locus’s things are kept _yes it’s fucking Locus._

“Dexter Grif,” says Locus very calmly. “Open. The. _Door_.” Or Locus is going to _make_ the door open.

“Okay, okay! You don’t have to use the murder voice, geez!”

Except that when Grif opens the door—ah, fuck, Locus realizes. Grif is flushed and his pupils blown wide, and the soft milky scent of an omega’s heat nearly knocks Locus backwards. “Look, I wasn’t expecting to go into heat,” Grif babbles, “I panicked, I was already in your room so I just locked it. I don’t know what happened. I’m not due for another heat for another month. I don’t know how…”

And then Grif stops, and takes a good look at Locus. “Wait,” he says. “Are you…?”

Locus shoves Grif back inside the room, glancing over his shoulder in the empty hallway, then locks the door behind both of them and checks the edges of the door for scent-sealing (there is some, but not enough). It’s far better for two omegas in heat to be locked in a room together than two omegas standing out in the open hallway where anyone could walk by. “That’s my fault,” Locus grits out.

“What?”

Locus collapses on the bed and drags one hand down his face. Even his own touch feels good, but not nearly enough; it makes the urge worse, if anything, because now he wants his own hand around his cock. Actually, in his own cunt would be better by far.

“Our heat cycles must have synced,” he says irritably. Typical of omegas who spent enough time in each others’ company; it was probable that spending so much time with Grif had actually stabilized Locus’s own irregular (nonexistent) cycle. And Grif would have known that, would have been prepared for that and not be caught unawares, if Locus had actually _told_ him. “That’s my fault. I didn’t think…”

“Dude, I had no idea you were an omega! Why didn’t you say so?!”

“I didn’t think I was going to have a heat,” Locus snaps. “I didn’t think I was ever going to have one again. It wasn’t going to be an issue.”

“Do you have a plan? An alpha? Tell me you have toys.”

Locus leans his entire face into the pillow. He's supposed to be getting his stuff and getting out of this room? But he’s breathing hard in his own ears, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. His skin is hot to his own touch and his shirt is scratchy and stifling. He’s absolutely leaking self-lubricant through his underwear. His fingers are drifting up his own shirt like they don’t belong to him. Oh, hell, he hasn’t had a proper heat since his young twenties, and he’d forgotten how… god, he can’t even think of a word, he can’t even _think_ , he just knows there’s a terrible hunger in his stomach and his groin and his skin and his mouth to lean back, to suck, to submit, to be filled, over and over and over again, to be wrapped up in an alpha’s arms and feel the knot expand—fuck, just thinking about a good solid knot in his cunt, _fuck—_

“Tell me you have toys, Locus,” says Grif. His voice sounds a lot closer. “Are they on your bug-ship? Should I go get them?”

“No,” Locus gasps. “There’s none.”

Grif swears at the top of his lungs.

Is he asking to borrow them? “You have Simmons,” Locus accuses.

“I don’t want your toys! I know I have Simmons! I’m talking about _you_. How're you gonna get through this?”

Locus doesn’t even respond.

“Locus?”

“Why aren’t you…” Locus can’t even form _words_. Was heat always this strong? This all-encompassing?

Grif is sweaty and flushed and covered in the soft, damp smell of heat, but not like Locus is. “Why aren’t I literally fucking incapacitated by it?” Grif asks. “Dude, I have heats regularly. When was the last time you had a heat?”

Locus grimaces.

“Oh my god,” Grif mutters, and smooths Locus’s sweaty hair away from his face. It’s probably not supposed to be as satisfying as it is, considering that Grif isn’t an alpha, but Locus leans into his touch all the same, eyes fluttering closed, drinking in the thick scent of heat from Grif’s skin. “Dude, you’re gonna die if you do this without even toys.”

“I won’t,” says Locus. He feels like he will. The gnawing hunger between his legs makes his breaths come out in ragged gasps, but he knows that he won’t die. It’ll just be a very, very unhappy few days.

“You don’t have _anything_ to help?”

No, because Locus is an idiot who thought that he wasn’t ever going to have a heat again. Locus shakes his head.

Grif’s fingers keep moving, beginning to thread into Locus’s hair itself, and Locus nearly keens with how good it feels. Even if Grif’s not an alpha, Grif’s touch isn’t Locus’s; it’s different, it’s better, it’s so good and Grif’s fingers aren’t even anywhere near Locus’s groin. If this trend keeps up, Locus is going to be a nonverbal wreck by the time his heat hits full swing.

“Do you _want_ help?” Grif asks quietly.

Locus isn’t putting two and two together. Mostly he just stares at Grif in confusion.

“Like, I’ve got a shitload of toys to get through heats back from, like, Blood Gulch?” Grif says. “But, you know… I dunno, sometimes when I’ve had a heat, sometimes other omegas would, uh, help me out. Lend a helping hand. They know what it’s like, so they’d bring supplies or whatever. A favor between omegas, if you know what I mean.”

He’s offering to help fuck Locus through his heat. Through both of their heats. “What... about Simmons?” Locus says. Did Grif expect Locus to think that he’d spent his heat days with another omega when Grif was in a committed relationship with a real alpha?

“Yeah, I’ll text him or something. Call him. But that’s also kind of what I was, uh, offering. Like, I have toys, you know? But I’ve also got, y’know… an actual alpha. We’re both in heat, dude. Might as well... share, right?” Grif’s grin is nervous, but Locus doesn’t miss the way that Grif’s eyes keep darting to Locus’s shoulders, his neck, his chest. “Something about being efficient?”

Grif is offering to have his boyfriend fuck Locus through his heat.

“Just an offer! If you’re okay with it, I’m offering. I can call him right now,” says Grif. “I can guess what he’ll say, but I’ll call him, ask him how he feels about it…”

Locus thinks about trying to suffer this alone and he knows that he _could_ do it, he could just sit here and fuck himself on his fingers and try to convince himself he’s satisfied with that, but he knows he won’t be and Grif’s offering, and if there’s anyone that Locus could call his first friend since Siris left, it’s Dexter Grif. “Like, I can go,” says Grif, when Locus doesn’t response. “I’ll tell Simmons to bring down some toys and we can leave you alone, if you want. I’m just saying—Simmons is right here, and he wouldn’t mind, and I _more_ than don’t mind, so…”

“Call him,” Locus says quietly.

Grif pulls out his phone. And if Grif’s beaming with excitement that doesn’t look like strictly-platonic friendliness, Locus thinks he might be fine with that, too.

 

* * *

 

Simmons texts back that he’s game, so Locus unlocks the door to the room for him, but the actual process of Simmons moving himself to Locus’s room takes too long for Locus’s taste. Locus might be a disciplined person, but he’s also an impatient person.

So that’s how, ten minutes later, Simmons opens the door to find Locus two fingers in Grif’s cunt and Grif sucking a whole bouquet of hickies down Locus’s neck.

“O-oh, hey, Simmons—” Grif says, unsteadily. Locus’s hormone-soaked brain tells Locus that that uneven gasp in Grif’s voice is because he’s close. Grif’s heat might not have hit him as hard as Locus, but that doesn’t mean that Grif isn’t currently—well, in heat.

“Give me something,” Locus snaps at Simmons.

“I—you—what—”

Locus glares at the small duffel bag in Simmons’s hand and doesn’t remove his fingers from Simmons’s boyfriend. Locus is hard to the point of pain and his thighs are wet almost to his knees with self-lubricant; he does not have time for Simmons to be stupid. “Get. Me. A. _Toy_.”

Simmons makes a high-pitched noise, shuts the door, unzips the duffel bag. “Keep moving, keep going,” Grif pleads, so Locus does, even though his wrist is beginning to ache, which gets him a soft moan. A dildo with an inflatable knot hits the bedsheet.

Locus snatches it up with his free hand and removes his fingers, which gets him a noise of protest. “Be patient,” Locus says, and he knows he’s cranky even as he says it because he himself has reached the point of feeling like he _needs_ a knot inside him and there’s _nothing_ , _nothing_ , just aching and emptyinside and Locus could gnash his teeth in frustration but Grif would take it entirely the wrong way, so instead he pushes Grif onto his back and pushes the dildo into Grif, checks Grif’s moan of “God fucking _yes_ ” as a sign that Grif is far beyond the point of needing adjustment time, and takes his frustration out by fucking the plastic cock in and out of Grif as hard as _Locus_ wants to be fucked, until Grif yelps and shakes and Locus inflates the fake knot with vengeance, lodging the dildo deep inside. Locus is panting. His skin is too hot and he’s covered in sweat and a little bit of Grif’s cum and he needs to be fucked _right now_.

“Fancy seeing you here, Simmons,” says Grif, with the sort of lazy sedation of someone who’s just successfully finished their first heat wave and hasn’t yet hit their second. “We got started without you. You still game?”

Simmons looks dazed already, but Locus can see his hard-on through his pants, which is what matters. “You weren’t due for a heat until next month?” Simmons says, apparently on autopilot, because his stare is soaking in the sight in front of him in a way that implies he’s not really thinking about logistics at all.

“Yeah, but something something heat cycles and that sync thing they do. Unexpected all around. Get over here and fuck one of us.”

 _This is the start of a racist porno_ , Locus thinks to himself. _White Alpha Bangs Two Slutty Omegas of Color in Heat At Once_.

Simmons and Locus don’t know each other as well as they probably _should_ , considering their mutual friend, and also considering that right now Locus wants nothing more than to have Simmons’s cock inside him, but honestly, what the _fuck_ ever. Simmons comes over and brings his heady smell of spices and earth with him, and Locus would lick it off his body if he didn’t still have one last scrap of dignity holding him back. Simmons crawls over him, pupils blown wide already. Just the feeling of his skin on Locus’s begins to scratch that overwhelming need deep between Locus’s legs.

“Holy shit,” Simmons whispers. He looks almost as overwhelmed as Locus feels, and when he leans in to kiss him, Locus opens his mouth immediately and makes the kiss deeper, wetter, like he can cajole Simmons into the harsh, bruising kiss that Locus needs right now.

Except that all Simmons does is kiss, and then Locus pulls away. “Are you going to fuck me or not?” Locus demands.

“Wh—what about foreplay?! Build-up? Don’t you need prep or something—”

Locus has had nearly twenty years of build-up. “No. _Move_.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s been keyed up for almost half an hour,” Grif says, then gasps and shakes and comes again, second successive orgasm spurred on by the dildo’s fake knot. Simmons pulls Grif into a kiss, Simmons’s aroused urgency getting no traction with Grif’s post-coital laziness. It’s more a ‘hello’ kiss than anything else, a marker of their obvious relationship patterns that Locus has rudely intruded on.

“Come on, Simmons,” says Grif. “Don’t overthink it. We talked about this.”

“Fuck,” Simmons whispers, and turns back to Locus, leaning in to skim his mouth over Locus’s chest. “I could smell you two from outside the door.”

“Less foreplay, more fucking,” Locus demands.

“God—god, okay, yeah—”

They get Simmons’s pants off. Simmons’s cock is thick and red in response to Locus’s heat, and when Simmons finally lines up and pushes in, every inch of it in Locus’s cunt is heavenly, _finally, finally_ the emptiness between Locus’s legs getting filled with a cock that’s hot and pulsing in the way a dildo doesn’t. Even the beginnings of the knot at Locus’s entrance is perfect. “Like that,” Locus gasps, leaning his head back. “Harder. Fuck me—”

Simmons does. Locus clamps his lips shut around his yell into a wordless keen.

It’s one thing to have an alpha’s cock inside you when you’re out of heat; it’s another thing when you’re _in_ heat. Sex with Felix had never been like this _because_ Locus had refused to go into heat. Simmons takes orders well and finally gets the message that Locus isn’t interested in soft and gentle, and fucks Locus with everything he’s got, until the bed shakes and Locus is holding on to the sheets with a force that might genuinely tear the threads. Grif’s slid the dildo out at some point, and he’s looking at them with a wave of interest that tells Locus that Grif’s hit his second wave, and in a moment of haze, feeling his orgasm begin to build, Locus pulls Grif towards him and over him, until Grif’s got his thighs around Locus’s neck and Locus can lap at the thick wetness between Grif’s legs while Grif’s boyfriend fucks Locus at the same time. Grif’s hands grip the rattling headboard behind Locus and grinds down, already groaning, primed to come again so fast due to the heat.

“Shit,” Simmons swears, and there’s a flood of warmth deep inside Locus, the knot hard and locking into place as Locus’s cunt tightens.

Locus gasps for air, tearing his mouth away from Grif’s cunt and shouts when he comes like lightning in his skin, clutching Grif’s thighs. Grif strokes himself to the sight. Simmons grinds the knot deeper, even as they’re stuck together, and comes again, another shuddering pulse of cum deep inside Locus, and Locus feels a second orgasm crest hard and fast but smoother than the electric fire of his first. “Fucking _hell_ that’s hot,” Grif’s voice says, which reminds Locus of what he was doing, and Locus moves Grif’s cunt back to his mouth and pushes his tongue deep inside Grif with desperation like he hasn’t just come twice in a row. Grif’s hips grind down hard to ride Locus’s face in earnest, Grif’s voice stammering something that Locus can’t really hear, and then Grif’s thighs shake around Locus’s ears and Locus keeps licking, keeps pushing even as Grif starts coming down, Simmons’s knot pulses again with another rush of warm cum, and Locus hits his third orgasm in a row. Grif pushes himself up, to Locus’s semi-disappointment; on one hand, Locus probably needs to breathe, but on the other hand, Locus wanted to see if he could make Grif come twice just with his mouth.

Jesus fucking christ. Yeah, this isn’t anything like using a dildo to get through a heat.

“I call getting knotted next,” says Grif, and gives a shaky laugh, still obviously high on endorphins. “Locus, you can sit on my face this time. Or we’ve got a vibrator somewhere in that bag.”

Even with Simmons’s knot lodged inside him, both of these options sound spectacular to Locus.

“I haven’t even unknotted yet,” Simmons complains. He’s resting his head against Locus’s stomach to hold as still as possible; every move makes both Simmons and Locus shiver with the overstimulation. “How am I going to keep pace with you guys? You’re going to kill me from too much sex.”

“What a way to go, though,” says Grif. “Cause of death: trying to satisfy two really, really horny omegas in heat simultaneously.”

“I’ll come back from the grave and kill you myself if you write that on my obituary.”

“Locus won’t let you,” says Grif smugly. “He’ll blow your kneecaps off.”

“Stop using Locus to win arguments! Ah—” Both Simmons and Locus shudder from the sudden movement. They’ve still got a while to go before Simmons’s knot deflates. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Locus. “You two never stop arguing, do you.”

“Nah,” says Grif.  

It’s beginning to hit Locus that he’s signed up for not just one go-around, but many, many go-arounds, happening several times a day for multiple days in a row. Never mind Simmons, _Locus_ might die.

Grif frowns. “Why, does the arguing bother you?”

“It’s cute,” Locus replies.

Grif and Simmons both do a remarkably similar nervous giggle.

They’ve got a while to go, yet; it’ll be several days before the heat subsides. Locus is surprised to find that he’s looking forward to it. With this company, at least.

“But don’t use me to win arguments,” says Locus.

“Ha!”

“You’re both no fun,” says Grif, but without much emphasis, because his breathing has turned deeper and his cock has started to harden again.

Simmons notices too. “Think I could blow you at this angle?” he wonders aloud.

“With you two stuck together? I’d be practically lying on top of Locus. It’d be weird.”

“Get a toy,” says Locus. Carefully, trying not to jostle either of them too much, Simmons reaches over to the side and pulls up the duffel bag of supplies. “We’ll take care of it,” Locus tells Grif.

Grif beams.


End file.
